


empty halls

by Chierei



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mistletoe, Post-Episode: s04e22 No Man's Land
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29793270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chierei/pseuds/Chierei
Summary: Oswald used to love Christmas.Ed always hated Christmas.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	empty halls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss_Vile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Vile/gifts).



> A _very_ belated Secret Santa gift for Miss_Vile! So sorry that it took me so long, but I hope you still like it. ;~; Thanks for being the best fandom Mom we could ask for!

Oswald used to love Christmas.

Christmas was the time that, despite the draft that never left their old apartment or the never quite warm enough clothing, was full of fond memories. It was the time where he’d come home from school and smell the heavy scent of paprika from the stove or the pungent spice of gingerbread that his mother painstakingly decorated with traditional floral spirals. It was the time when the neighbors would press handfuls of roasted chestnuts or chocolates into his hand on the way home, and the apartment complex would be alight with mismatched lights and cheap wreaths.

They could never afford a tree, but one year the neighbors pooled together to buy a small, lopsided evergreen for the hallway that they decorated with whatever bits and bobs everyone had. His mother had produced a handful of szaloncukor that they strung together to add to the tree. His mother would always pretend she didn’t see Oswald sneaking pieces of candy into his mouth in between. It was one of Oswald’s favorite memories as a child.

And times were always lean for Oswald and his mother, but his mother always found a gift for him without fail, whether it was a new scarf or a toy, a pair of scratched cuff links or brand new gloves she had saved for. Christmas was full of memories of soft Hungarian carols and the scent of cinnamon.

After his mother died, Christmas was just another way to remind himself of his failure. His leg ached fiercely in the cold, and despite his wishes, every Christmas was spent alone—whether it was in an empty mansion or behind the bars of Arkham, Christmas was just another reminder that Oswald would always be alone, and this year was no different.

The generators had gone out again, but Oswald was used to it. Even with all his threats of death and violence, his men couldn’t keep the old diesel generator running. Fuel was becoming more and more scarce as every day passed by, and the cold made his leg _ache_.

Oswald massaged his ankle, grimacing around the pain. The fireplace provided a modicum of warmth, but Oswald wasn’t a fool enough to let it burn any higher than the modest flames it was at now. Wood was less rare of a resource than diesel, but he had spent too many winters burrowed under layers of threadbare blankets when they had gone without. It was enough that Oswald wasn’t freezing, but he was not nearly warm enough for it to be comfortable. The blanket over his lap and jacket around his shoulders would have to be enough.

The sound of wind blowing and the shake of shutters turned Oswald’s attention to the outside, and he almost let out a bark of laughter, bitter and incredulous. Leave it to Gotham. Because it was months into a hell-forsaken year, cut off from the mainland and fighting over scraps like animals, that Gotham decided to grace them with snow.

Oswald took the few hobbling steps to the window, careful to keep out of shot line from the surrounding buildings, and watched as the lazy swirl of snowflakes drifted down from the gray sky. He gathered the blanket closer around himself, contenting himself for a few minutes to watch the scene that was so quiet, so serene, that he could almost forget what was happening.

Almost against his will, his hand ducked to the inside of his jacket, pressing against the small bundle that was set inside the inner pocket. It had just been a little thing, a fleet of fancy, that he had taken from a day of scavenging. His people knew that Oswald got the first pick of whatever they found, which generally meant food, fuel, or anything of tactical use, but this had been...a moment of weakness.

He took the little sprig out of his pocket, almost reverently, and cradled it between his cupped hands, still leaning against the wall as he watched lazy snow drift slowly coat the gray streets. He stroked the leaves gently with his thumb, feeling the softness of the leaves, the delicate nature of it. The plump white berries glimmered in the low firelight, their waxy finish only making them glisten brighter. Oswald wondered if Ivy had anything to do with this, wondered if she had set the little poisonous bundles around the city, hoping to stuff a few of them down into the greedy gullets of those who harmed her precious plants.

Or maybe it was some haphazard citizen who had cultivated them over the last months, a small spot of joy in the otherwise lawless city. The ribbon that tied together the small bundle was a smooth red velvet, its ends tattered and spotted with dirt, a far cry from the pristine crimson ribbons Oswald used to look at as a child, wide-eyed and romantic at the florists, bundled in his misshapen hat and fingerless gloves.

He wished he could say he didn’t know why he had grabbed it, but his heart was a traitorous thing. And Oswald may be a liar, but he had never been able to lie to himself. He had grabbed it for the same reason that there was a little package, wrapped in simple brown and gold paper and tied off with a green ribbon hiding in the drawer next to what he used as a bed, the same reason that he was here now, hidden away in what used to be a library and surrounded by a half-dozen booby traps.

The reason that was only a few doors down dressed in a hideous gray jumpsuit and perhaps pouring over more schematics and blueprints. Or perhaps he was dressed in his suit, hair slicked back and eyes glowing in the candlelight as he spent his Christmas Eve wrapped up in his own world, with his own desires, and away from Oswald.

Oswald closed his eyes, pretending not to feel the burn, and placed the little sprig of mistletoe back into his pocket.

He had no time, and no more room in his heart, to afford on sentimentality.

* * *

Ed always hated Christmas.

Christmas was the time that he was forced to face how much his family really didn’t care about him. Oh, they went through all of the motions. Their cookie-cutter house was always decorated with tasteful lights, and there was always a beautiful fresh tree in their living room. The tree, lush and wafting the scent of pine, would be decorated with twinkling lights and glass orbs, beautiful decorations that looked too perfect to be real. It was the type of tree that looked like it was plucked from the pages of the magazine—all the beauty of the holiday without any of the warmth.

Ed was never allowed to decorate the tree, and whatever pitiful homemade decorations he’d bring home from school went unceremoniously into the trash. All of the decorations were bought from high-end stores and were what his mother was assured was the best and the latest. The presents under the tree were superficial—more for show than actual interest in gift-giving—and wrapped in shiny paper with perfect ribbons. There would be the classic gifts of expensive jewelry for his mother or hand-crafted trinkets for his father. And there would be one or two items thrown under the tree with Ed’s name under it.

Again, it was all for show. Christmas time was the time for lavish parties that his mother would spend days preparing. His father’s coworkers would all come with their fake smiles and fake wives and their fake children, and the Nashtons had to be just as fake and perfect.

By the time Ed was ten, his father had given up on him being that perfect son he needed. That was when all of Ed’s questions stopped being precocious and cute and simply became weird and annoying. It was when he realized that Ed would never be the son he wanted—he couldn’t throw a baseball, couldn’t play with toy trucks, and couldn’t even do the bare minimum of _shutting up_. Ed was, in a word, a freak. And freaks weren’t seen or heard. So every Christmas Eve was spent locked in his room, listening to the sounds of music and laughter through the walls as he feigned sickness.

By the time he was thirteen, they had stopped even bothering with that pretense. Christmas would come and go with nothing for Ed to show for it except maybe a few more bruises.

By the time he left that world behind, the concept of Christmas had become foreign. He never understood it—the trappings of society that dictated socially required gift-giving. He had tried for a while to pretend that he understood. He thought that maybe if he could get this right, then perhaps he would feel normal.

It was only when he embraced being the Riddler that he realized that he would never be normal, and he didn’t care to be. He was above it—above the stupid, outdated tradition that seemed to grip the populous. Christmas was good for nothing other than perhaps a few extra treasures hidden in the coffers that were of interest to him and a few good puns. (He didn’t think about those months of being in-between when he was caught between being Edward Nygma and the Riddler. He didn’t think of the nights sleeping in a room from the only real friend he had ever known or the hours he had spent planning for the perfect tree that would fit into the foyer and the perfect gift that he had spent hours laboring over. He didn’t think about the first time that he had thought _perfect,_ and he hadn’t thought _fake_ next to it.)

Christmas in No Man’s Land was how he preferred. He could focus on their plan to escape instead of the meaningless festivities or capitalistic brainwashing that likened affection to material gains. Christmas was going to be him spending the night just as he had all the other nights--pouring over blueprints and penciling down painstaking calculations under the warm orange glow of the fireplace. He hadn’t put a few extra logs into the fire before Oswald had arrived, hadn’t made sure that the library was stocked with a few extra blankets to combat the cold that made old wounds stiffen. He hadn’t spent two days tracking down what may have been the last vestiges of cheap hot chocolate and peppermint schnapps. He hadn’t.

Just as he hadn’t stopped when he had spied the small bushel of phoradendron serotinum that had attached itself to the half-dead oak tree outside, and he hadn’t cut off a small sprig with a cluster of white berries. And he hadn’t left it in his pocket, rubbing his thumb over the leaves as he waited outside the door and tried to find the courage to open it.

No, he told himself, as he rested his hand on the worn brass doorknob and the sprig of mistletoe burned a hole in his jacket. This Christmas in No Man’s Land was how he preferred it.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's almost spring, but have some belated Christmas ~~fluff~~ angst. Hopefully, I'll add to this later to have more of the fluff side, but I hope everyone still enjoyed it. <3
> 
> If you liked this, please take a moment to let me know in the comments! <3


End file.
